Think of Nepal and the images that usually spring to mind are the high, icy peaks of the Himalaya dotted with prayer flags, or the bustling streets and winding alleyways of Kathmandu. I was therefore greatly blessed to have the opportunity to visit one of Nepal’s hidden treasures this year, the region of Eastern Terai. This over-land adventure would take me way beyond the back-packing crowds to a remote area where the high Himalayan peaks give way to flat, green fields stitched together in a pattern of patchwork.
It was early morning when we left Kathmandu on the local bus and the previous day’s rain continued to fall in true monsoon style, vertically! Outside figures weaved quickly and seamlessly between those waiting to flag down micro-buses on the ring-road while others tried, and often failed, to dodge the roadside spray generated by the passing vehicles. As the bus snaked downwards from the elevated city of Kathmandu into the emerald green valley below I began to internally rationalise the long bus journey ahead of me. Surprisingly, this did not take long as I quickly realised that with regard to the law of averages, any long overland bus journey executed during the monsoon season in Nepal, could actually get me killed. As we progressed eastwards, the bus hurtled around the tight curves of the valley road, and now and again straight stretches opened up for the more dangerous pursuit of over-taking, all the while, the rising muddy waters of the river below hugging our route. I decided that the best thing to do would be to close my eyes, pray and then try to get some sleep ...
It wasn’t that long before a piercing “Hueraaghl” disturbed my slumber. I needed no translation. The woman behind me obviously didn’t take too well to overland travel! As the bus continued to rumble between the stretches of tarmac and “improvised” road I watched the hour hand of my watch impatiently. It seemed that the driver was becoming bored even by his own driving and in order to make the journey just a little more interesting, had made up a new game of seeing for how long he could drive towards the buffalo in the road before they ended up as road-kill.
It had been suggested by a Nepali whom I had spoken with two days before that the journey would take approximately eight hours, though the rumbling evening thunder and darkening sky revealed to me that we were heading for somewhere nearer twelve! As we crossed the Kosi river, its waters swollen by the prevailing monsoon rains, the bus rolled into the sleepy town of Inaruwa where we would spend the night.
The next day was a day of huge contrasts and my emotions were mixed with a strange sense of anticipation and excitement, but at the same time sorrow and anxiety. The day before, the internal Agni Air flight attempting to make the notoriously precarious landing at Lukla had been unable to do so because of bad weather. The pilot, taking the only possible option available, attempted to return the plane to Kathmandu though it appears that a technical or mechanical fault occurred. Subsquently, the aircraft crashed. All fourteen people on board, including a British man, a Japanese traveller, four Americans and eight Nepalis, three of which were crew members, lost their lives. The flash of images across the television screen told of devastation at the crash site, and the turmoil of the victims’ families as their unidentified remains lay crudely stowed in blue plastic sacks. My insides turned as I thought of the families who had lost their loved ones, and the fact that I would be taking an internal flight back to Kathmandu the following day. I turned off the TV and we began to prepare for the day ahead where we would visit a computer-training programme and meet some local villagers.
As Sapana and I hunted out a place for breakfast we met a number of rickshaw and basanti drivers trying to earn some rupees, and a man cycling with goats in a basket precariously placed on each handlebar of his bicycle. As we rounded each corner we were met with inquisitive stares and I was glad when we reached our early morning dining spot. Under the high blue canvas roof which was already being warmed by the early morning sun we sat at a splintered, wooden table and ate what could actually be the best vegetable samosa in Nepal. As I sipped my lemon tea I began to realise that I was not only half a world away from home, but also another half a world away (if that was at all possible despite being in the same country) from the bustling streets of Kathmandu. As the locals stared strangely and wondered about the kuiree or fair-one in their midst, I followed Sapana’s lead and hopped on the local bus that would take us to Laukhi.
Scrambling aboard I applied the stance I had learned so well on bus journeys around Kathmandu, that of the Sumo wrestler! It involves arms just above the head to grab the strap or rail, and leaving the centre of gravity low as to avoid embarrassingly landing on top of any seated passengers. Added stability in this position is resumed by flip-flop rubber remaining entirely in contact with the floor below. This is especially beneficial during monsoon season to prevent one from sliding up and down the bus in the wet, muddy grime that was once the bus floor.
Arriving in Laukhi we were met by Parash, a remarkable young man with a real understanding of what it means, and what it looks like to build community among some of the world’s least reached. As we rode in what is referred to as a basanti, a bicycle-come-vegetablecrate-come- trailer on wheels, we rattled up the road, the yellowy-green patchwork of paddy fields and brightly coloured clothes hanging on makeshift washing lines, blurring as we passed. As the sun began to burn away the early morning low cloud, the temperature rose significantly and the breeze generated from our open-air transport was particularly welcome. Water-logged fields and high reeds occasionally parted to reveal complexly constructed huts of wood and mud, while on the roadside women gathered to sell their harvested crops. For a moment I lost myself in sheer wonder and amazement. Not only was I able to travel through one of the least visited areas of Nepal, but as Parash pointed out, I could almost see India on the horizon. The screeching of the rusty brakes on the basanti brought me back to reality and as we alighted for the obligatory record snapshot and rounded the corner, the water-logged fields gave way to a sandy landscape that poured into my sandals as I walked. The contrast between the two was immense and as I entered this silver desert my understanding of Nepalese geology was completely thwarted. I was standing in the exact place where many would argue that both a catastrophe and a miracle had simultaneously taken place.
On August 18th 2008, heavy monsoon rains caused the embankment flood defences near the Nepal-India border to be breached by water. The floodwaters passed through this region at an incredible rate inundating hundreds of villages. The flood submerged most of the Kosi alluvial fan area, which is one of the most fertile and densely populated agrarian regions of both India and Nepal. The immense flood waters caused substantial loss of life and property in the Terai region, and furthermore in India as the waters travelled southwards. I was therefore standing in the aftermath.
Just an hour before Parash, Sapana and I spent some time with some local villagers. We were invited into a long wooden hut with raised platforms. I presumed that this would be the place that the villagers gathered to pass the time of day and as the clothes hanging from the rafters warmed in the mid-morning sun I became very aware of the fact that I was in a particularly privileged position, having being invited into this tight-knit Muslim community. As Parash and Sapana talked, more gathered and I tried to follow the conversation as much as possible with my limited Nepali language. As we sat plates of chiura, chillies and dried lentils, topped with something short, thin and wavy were offered to us to eat. In the dimly-lit room my eyes scanned the metal plate. It seemed at first as though the thin, wavy ingredient was moving and I was immediately reminded of an article I had recently read by William Reyburn where he highlighted the importance of his live caterpillar-eating experience as a kind of token acceptance, when living and working among the Kaka tribe in Africa. As I examined the plate further, and not wishing to cause offence, my heart began to race and my mouth began to dry out.
On closer inspection, I realised that the moving mass of the thin, wavy ingredient was actually dried noodles, and they were moving because I was holding the plate on a tilt. As I breathed a sigh of relief I began to chase the contents of the plate into my right hand, and for obvious reasons, consciously sat on my left! As we munched through the crispy concoction, the village elder talked with us. The idle chit-chat moved quickly away from passing the time of day to the more pressing issues surrounding this isolated community. He explained that the Kosi floods of 2008 had really taken their toll and the livelihood of the whole region remains in jeopardy. As far as the eye can see, the once flat and fertile land has been transformed by raging flood-waters into a sandy desert. The villagers continued to explain that there were a number of NGO’s who responded to the devastation caused by the floods. While obviously all NGO’s are well-meaning, it seemed that the villagers were perplexed by some of the support provided, which included the attempted provision of a piped water supply to the village. “The problem with this” he continued “Is that I can get the water from the well. What we really need is help to be able to grow our crops again. We cannot grow the crops but when the land is flat we can grow the crops. We need the tractors to come to plough the land! If we can grow the crops we can sell the crops!” The challenges of living in such a remote area are huge, and it was obvious that there would be no quick-fix to address such high levels of poverty. As the searing temperatures of the day cooled to a balmy thirty-something degrees, I reflected that unless people listen and provide a service to meet the needs of the people, any NGO involvement in such an area will be completely fruitless. I was however greatly encouraged by those on the ground in Laukhi who are beginning to see the needs of this community met. They are running with the vision!
Later that day we were invited for dinner into Parash’s family home and there was an opportunity to watch the world go by from the balcony area. At around 5pm the quiet road outside was transformed into a bustling trading area. Women sat with large sizzling pots while others chatted in the golden rays of the evening sun. Children sat by the roadside, scratching pictures in the earth with sticks and men brought livestock on bicycles to sell. Priceless ...
So, the impact of a trip like this is that if such a paradox can exist, is that it simultaneously changes nothing and it changes everything. On the one hand I am who I am. I continue to do what I do. On the other hand, it changes my understanding, it changes my perspective, it changes the journey. However, the story is still being written!
